


Dancing in the Dark

by Astarte19



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, brother mine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:28:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24128173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astarte19/pseuds/Astarte19
Summary: "Mycroft was sitting on a wooden bench, lacing up his shiny new tango shoes (Anthea had picked a pair of black and white flats, which she correctly assumed he would like best. Or rather – dislike the least." Mycroft lost a bet to Sherlock who made him refresh his dancing (and maybe other human?) skills. Started as a Mollcroft, but I gave up really quick as Molly was getting too much out of character (and she deserves better, so I'm not giving up on writing a proper Mollcroft one day). Bad at summaries, give it a chance, there's gonna be a lot of dancing, might even get you to finally sign up for the tango dance class you always wanted to do :D
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Original Character(s), Mycroft Holmes & Original Female Character(s), Mycroft Holmes/Original Character, Mycroft Holmes/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	1. I. Leyenda Gaucha

**Author's Note:**

> So, you should know this actually started as a Molly/Mycroft one-shot, then I very soon realized that Molly was getting out of character (and she deserves better, Ms. Hooper, she does, and I will be working on it). So, yeah, I guess here goes yet another attempt at a Mycroft/OC pairing, sorry. If you choose to picture the OC being Molly, I won't hold it against you :D Also, not sure where or how far this will be going, depending on my time and encouragement. The plan is to switch between Mycroft and OC's point of view and very, very slowly let it develop (not sure what "It" is going to be yet).
> 
> Some "technical" notes: English isn't my native language, so bear with me, I'm still learning. Also, I really have no idea of the British educations system or the state of its schools, or lots of other things you may find weird :) I do research, but I also make stuff up as I go.
> 
> The chapter titles will, surprise-surprise, follow some well-known Tango and Milonga songs.
> 
> Tips, constructive critisicm, are very welcome, please, do review either way.

Chapter 1: Leyenda Gaucha

Mycroft was sitting on a wooden bench, lacing up his shiny new tango shoes (Anthea had picked a pair of black and white flats, which she correctly assumed he would like best. Or rather – dislike the least. They were very suggestive of the 1920ies, for some reason he approved of that).

An ominous frown had settled on his face. A stranger could suppose that he was mildly disgusted by something, as his expression showed a mixture of sulking, a complete averseness to all this and just a faint trace of disbelief, that was more like some residual incredulity over something from a while ago, but recent enough to still make him shrug and shake his head ever so slightly. When he thought about it, that went two ways really: first, he couldn't quite grasp how he had lost the blasted wager (and to his brother of all people… he wouldn't lie – it did hurt). And second, why the hell didn't he just get out of this anyway? Why did he agree to do this? But no, he wasn't going to give his brother the satisfaction of being a bad loser, no, he was going to be the bigger man and show Sherlock that one could lose a bet without having a fit and accept the loss with dignity (well, that was pushing it a bit too far, but… let's just say he was going to bear it and suffer in silence. After all, there was always going to be a next time).

The two young Argentinian tango teachers clapped their hands and everyone moved into the middle of the large dancing room. It had a high ceiling, a parquet floor and two of its walls were panelled with mirrors. _Hmm, it could be worse, I suppose…_

Yet, his good will was exhausted within few minutes during which the participants in order to warm up had to do a few individual exercises, practice the stance and some of the steps and decorative elements, and yes, there were… _yoga_ moves... Mycroft took a deep breath, and seriously considered if throwing a tantrum wouldn't have been a better, more dignified way out than this.

He simply couldn't believe he had lost. It annoyed him on so many levels. In order to distract himself from this humiliating ordeal, and to get through this abasement faster, he thought he would indulge in a mental exercise... In less than four seconds he determined that his current dancing partner was a teacher (there was chalk on several spots on the skirt of her dark dress, and her hand had that specific touch to it of someone who had to use a sponge soaked with chalk water to clean a blackboard. In fact, to be exact the grey dusty spots on her dress matched the area where one would wipe one's hands clean, which indicated to him that she didn't always bother to _wash_ her hands. Either she didn't have the time or at some point she didn't really care. Now, he knew there weren't any primary or secondary schools in London that would still use an old fashioned blackboard. But, the innovation of the smartboard hadn't yet reached entirely into every hidden corner of some universities and colleges. He also knew, that it were the liberal arts that were more resilient to go with change and progress, but they also were the ones, or at least some of them, that would have been the last to get the financial means to upgrade their equipment. Considering all this, Mycroft concluded that she was very likely teaching some marginalised humanities, and most assuredly not theoretical physics. It took him another six seconds ( _was he really slipping?_ ) to establish that her area of teaching was music. Her not long, but sleek fingers indicated she played an instrument, most likely the guitar or the piano. No, correct: As their first tango ended and she let go of his arm, he spotted the tiny, barely noticeable bulge of calloused skin on the bottom side of her left index finger. That and the fact that her fingertips lacked the calluses usually associated with guitar or any other string instruments were all really pointing towards… _the flute_. Yes, her bottom lip looked like it would accommodate its mouthpiece very well. It wasn't too big, but full enough, while her upper lip distantly reminded him of the side shape of a cello…

He frowned as he noticed her cheeks turn slightly red. _Ah yes, the blush of the embarrassed…_ he had stared at her lips a tad longer than what people who adhered to social conventions would consider casually appropriate. He raised his eyes to look into hers, she was now clearly abashed, and managed to contort his lips into something of a coerced smile before returning and fixing his eyes back on her suprasternal notch – a golden rule of every dance class.

Three tangoes later, he confirmed his observations: she clearly had a flawless sense of the rhythm, even though she occasionally seemed to have trouble keeping her balance or discern her limbs to move according to the rhythm - a seemingly paradox trait, yet, Mycroft knew, not uncommon among musicians. He also noticed with amusement she had a slightly impaired left-right-differentiation.

He smirked bitterly: _Or maybe she is a nuclear physicist. After all, I did bet that Molly Hooper had taken on violin lessons…_ And there was the self-pity again.

Ever since Eurus he had doubts about his judgment and his capabilities, and this lost bet was only a confirmation that they were well placed.

"You dance very well," the music teacher said casually at the end of the class as he sat down on the bench to change his shoes. The expression of suffering, of torment back on his face (has it ever left?). He merely gave her a short look and the same forced grimace that one may confuse with a smile, but she somehow sensed it was not, before he looked back at his shoes and neatly, carefully put them away in the box they had come in.

She raised her brows, then said jokingly, imitating a deep voice of a gentleman: _"Why thank you, ma'am, you're not so bad yourself."_ She grinned, but the moment his cold blue eyes met hers she regretted it. She cleared her throat and before she could decide whether to say something else to him or not, an elderly woman saved her by addressing her from the opposite corner of the dressing room, when she asked loudly: "Louise? You in tonight?"

Clearly there were some post-class rituals these people practiced, them being a long cemented group of regular tango class attendees, some of which probably spent their last 20 years going to the same dance class _every. single. Friday. night. The horror…_

Louise picked her scarf from the bench and while wrapping it around her neck walked a few steps in the direction of the other woman. "Eh-yes, yess, I guess... sure," she said in a low, non-committal tone. She hesitated briefly, then turned around and appeared to be pondering something.

Mycroft got up to his feet, at last wearing his trusted, snug Oxford shoes again, he picked his coat, then his umbrella and the silk bag, in which he had put his tango shoe box, and was about to leave, when the music teacher named Louise reluctantly moved towards him. "Do-do you perhaps…," she started, but his stern look made her nervous and she subconsciously crossed her hands together in front of her, "… w-we are going to a milonga nearby, at the Tango Garden….," she saw him raise his brows questioningly, no, daringly is what it was… like he was _daring_ her to continue…

 _Dear Lord, was there no end to his torment?_ Mycroft thought.

"… would you perhaps… like to come?" _So there wasn't._ He paused for a brief moment, composing himself in order to not sound too morose. There was only so much touching and gripping to a stranger's waist he could stomach on an evening.

"Why thank you, that sounds... _delightful_ , but I'm afraid I'm otherwise engaged. Some other time perhaps," again the forced smile that really was just a faint twitch of the left corner of his mouth, then he gave a small bow but his eyes were already fixed on the exit, "good night."


	2. Chapter 2: A la gran muñeca

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's first tango class from Louise's point of view :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Now comes Louise's pow. I will try to keep it up this way, and to make it into a slowburning story, taking place shortly before and then during the Covid-pandemic, to have a look how someone like Mycroft would deal with it :)  
> Please leave a comment, on anything you like (or don't like).

**Chapter 2 – A la gran muñeca**

**Louise was late. She had been grading papers from her latest seminar on Greek Mythology in Romantic songs of the 19th century and had completely lost track of time. It happened rarely enough, but – she got so immersed in one very interesting attempt a student had taken on the interpretation of Schubert's _Ganymed_ that really sucked her in, and before she knew it, it was 7:30. She would have to pedal hard…**

**She arrived only few minutes late and, had it not been for her bike lock that had once again set her off on a quiet Turett-tyrade in front of the dancing school, her late arrival would have gone unnoticed, as Isabella and Paolo, the both tango instructors were rarely on time themselves. Yet, she wasn't all too sorry – she apparently just avoided the yoga portion of their warm-up routine.**

**She was just putting on her black shoes, somewhat absently as she was still trying to wrap her mind around her student's suggestion that the rise towards the G5 in Schubert's song might in fact represent Ganymed slowly achieving orgasm while rising towards Zeus (** _**intriguing, how no one else has stumbled upon this until now…** _ **), when a pair of black and white flats caught her eyes. She tilted her head curiously and while her fingers were still fumbling at the small silver clasp on her left shoe her look was slowly following the two strange feet, at first fixed on the shoes and their steps, but as those came to a halt, her eyes moved very slowly to follow the pair of legs attached to them… they were _long_ legs, slim, and wrapped in dark grey trousers which – with the left knee bent just ever so slightly carrying the weight – were augmenting the flattering silhouette. Those legs didn't seem to** _**end** _ **… she was so in awe and focused on them, that she got a mild scare when one of those particular legs suddenly moved to take a decisive, long step to the right, following the directions of Isabella and Paolo. She shrugged and under the sudden impatient swift click of her fingers the clasp on her shoe finally yielded and she got up and moved towards the group.**

**She gave Paolo an apologetic look for being late, to which he responded with a fake strict narrowing of his dark eyes, before pointing her with a forgiving smile to the direction of a gap at the back of the classroom.**

**The warm up, led largely by Isabella, was over and now Paolo joined her in a demonstration of today's focus: _sacadas_ in a _giro_. This wasn't an entirely new step to her, she remembered dancing those – or trying to – with Friederike… who didn't seem to be here tonight. **

**Friederike was Louise's** _**favourite** _ **partner to dance with, what with male tango class attendees being scarce she often had to dance with a woman for training purposes. Yet Friederike – or Fred for short -, a tall and sleek lawyer of 45, was an excellent leader. She had danced tango for years as a follower, and by the time Louise got to know her a few months ago in the tango class, Fred was determined – as she had put it – to make things interesting and to learn the "other part", which Louise found commendable. And she was a joy to dance with at any evening.**

**Louise didn't mind to lead herself, if necessary, and the two teachers were also anxious that the students of both genders learned the steps for both roles, but still…**

**She was a bit disappointed to find Friederike apparently wasn't coming tonight. On the bright side – so wasn't Olaf as it seemed.**

**Olaf was Louise's** _**least favourite** _ **partner to dance with. She would never let on about it of course. If Fred was an open-minded dancer, embracing all the possibilities of a tango in the 21st century and looking to lifting up others and to improving her own ways of dancing, which included taking over a male lead, Olaf was the complete opposite. He was all for improving alright, or rather correcting, just not of his own. Every dance with him, however short, would start with him tapping on her elbow to indicate she wasn't giving him enough tension. Then, usually after up to six steps he would pause and patronize her because of her legwork or her slumped back, and he wouldn't even shy away from sliding his spidery long legs and feet against hers to push her feet into what he considered the correct position.**

**So no Olaf, and no Fred, it's a draw then, yet it still meant she'd need a partner. Her eyes swiped over the room once more, and suddenly came to a halt on a new face. Piercing bright blue eyes were focused and in a slight frown fixed on Paolo's current leader demonstration. The tall man was leaning onto a wall with his arms crossed on his chest. As she sized him downwards, she suddenly recognized the long, seemingly non-ending legs that had caught her attention before. He was wearing dark grey trousers, a matching waistcoat – r _eally? a waistcoat? who wears a waistcoat to a tango dance class?_ – and a pale blue shirt with a - _oh yes – an actual tie_ , a night blue colour with a discreet rose print that one would only notice up close… She got so puzzled by the tie that she didn't notice how its rose print was getting clearer and clearer until she could actually discern the individual small leaves and petals… _very lovely_ …**

" **Well, shall we then?" A clear voice sounding from right in front of her brought her back. She jerked away a little and raised her head from the tie that was now only few feet away to look into the blue eyes. She raised her brows to collect herself. He looked around them as if checking something, then said calmly, "It appeared the two of us were the only ones left without a counterpart," before turning back at her.**

**His voice was smooth and soft. Like the damper on a grand piano, she thought. Those few words he said sounded like engaging and then slowly, yet with a meticulous precision, releasing the sustain pedal, the felt of the dampers putting a tender and soft end to every single word. It made her wonder if it was a well and long-time practised and conscious choice on his part or whether it was simply… his voice, true and always.**

**She briefly looked passed him to assess the room one more time making sure there wasn't anyone left, and she was already kind of hoping there really wasn't. Something about him was telling her that he was a meticulous dancer. _There was that word again_. She couldn't tell why but it would be the first word that occurred to her, should she be asked to describe him quickly. _Meticulous. Immaculate, flawless_. She knew that a fancy suit didn't necessarily equal an accomplished dancer ( _remember Steve_ , her first dancing partner in her first tango class a few months ago… gosh, he was lovely and gentle and very nice, but a terrible, terrible dancer, and rather than following his lead she would worry about breaking him if she held on to his arm too tight).**

**She looked at this new man, taking an inner deep breath, then saw his offered left hand, somewhat relieved. It was always a delicate thing, dancing with someone new, not knowing what embrace they would go for. But she was glad that he obviously didn't care for the distant practicing embrace that some more shy dancers tended to choose, but instead went for the classical frame, not too intimate, but comfortable and much more practicable.**

" **Sure," she finally said her first word and took his hand while stepping closer and allowing him to place his right hand on her waist. Well, allowing wasn't quite the right word, as she noted with some amusement: very much unlike most of the other new dancers he didn't seem to have any reservations. He clearly wasn't shy nor did he pretend to be, like some. She got the distinct impression that he wouldn't stand for any nonsense like that. After all this was a tango class, so if you came here, you came to dance, and to dance with a partner meant you came prepared to hold and to be held, no place for false considerations.**

**It felt nice, he clearly wasn't a beginner. His frame was firm, but his grip not too tight ( _f*ck Olaf once again_ ), his hand was warm, not sweaty like Steve's used to be… the music started… and she froze. She had got so engrossed in thought that now she completely lost the track of what steps they were supposed to practice together.**

**But he already made a first step, it was too late to wonder. However, the brief moment of panic passed as quickly as it came and she just let herself being led by him.**

**She was right. He _was_ a good dancer. So good even that the sacadas in the giros – now she remembered that's what they were supposed to train – came entirely natural to her. Every now and then Isabella or Paolo would come over to show them some embellishments they could try or to offer some minor corrections in their footwork and posture. **

**She would keep her eyes fixed on his tie, which was really easy as she _really_ liked its print, plus it helped her to concentrate on keeping the frame firm. Only now and then she would look up briefly to give him a short smile. As she did so once, she saw him looking at her lips. There was no lust or any sign of desire or anything like that in his eyes, but she still blushed instantly and quickly looked away.**

**They didn't talk but for those few occasions where she apologized for getting on on the left foot instead of the right one or vice versa. But the silence wasn't awkward, they were after all dancing. From her small experience, the less talk the more of a sign it was that both parties were relaxed and enjoying themselves. Well, enjoying may have been an overstatement in his case, she had to admit when she dared a stealthy look at his features. He seemed focused and comfortable enough, but there something about him was telling her he wasn't exactly pleased or happy. Whether it had anything to do with her and their dancing she couldn't possibly tell.**

**But before she could think about it any further, the music of the last tango stopped and he let go of her waist and her hand and with a short bow and a polite smile he turned on the spot and rushed with swift steps towards the wooden bench where the attendees used to change their shoes. She watched him for a few seconds, then slowly followed him when she noticed her own shoes and coat were right next to where he just sat down.**

**She complimented him on his dancing as he was taking off his shoes. He seemed unfazed, and her attempt at a joke backfired, but thankfully, in that moment Rebecca asked her from across the room whether she was coming along tonight. Louise found the loud question odd, because ever since she had joined the class some six months ago she had been going along to the milongas with the group every Friday night. But then she saw Rebecca's meaningful look and a nod towards the newcomer and she got the hint.**

**She bit her lip and thought for a moment. Good tango partners, _male_ tango partners were hard to come by these days, even in London. And although she had no trouble dancing with women, or even taking over the leading role if necessary, still it was just too good an opportunity to let it slide.**

**So she gathered up all her courage and asked him, somewhat nervously, if he perhaps wanted to come along to Tango Garden. She wasn't even halfway through the question and she already regretted it. He was trying to be polite, but she could tell that was the last thing he would consider doing on this evening.**

**And though she had to admit that moment of his leaving and bidding her goodnight had a certain _Darcy-rejecting-Elizabeth-at-the-country-ball quality_ , she wasn't vain and wouldn't dwell on it for too long. There will be others, she thought.**

**AN: Please review :) hope to update soon**


	3. Chapter 3: Paciencia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Here the next bit, this time I managed to put both Mycroft's and Louise's pow into one chapter, and I think I'll try to keep it up this way :)
> 
> Thank you for the first review, very encouraging.
> 
> I really hope to be able to keep Mycroft in character so I'm eager to hear from you, readers, how it's going on that front.
> 
> If you're interested in tango or wonder what all those steps might look like, check youtube, I found the videos by "Tango Space - Argentine Tango School" or by "Tango 303" really lovely.

Chapter 3 – Paciencia

Mycroft: 

A week has passed and with a sunken heart Mycroft was walking towards the large glass door of the dancing school, his umbrella on his right arm, the silk bag with his tango shoes in the left hand, and on his face the usual frown. He was grumpy, or more so than normally.  
He had left his brother few hours ago, and Sherlock had enjoyed himself immensely by teasing him endlessly about the lost bet. Yet Mycroft wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of admitting just how much he was suffering under the ordeal.

He arrived on time to his 2nd tango class, to his annoyance the both teachers weren’t there yet, only couple of the participants, chatting in small groups and exchanging their week’s news. He put on his tango shoes. He had to admit he rather liked them. Just as he did the high mirrors that were panelled on the walls of the classroom, he thought as he was observing his reflection in one of them and adjusting his tie. It was his one vice, being vain in that aspect. He liked seeing himself all dapper and dressed up and exuding that look of power and aloofness that others would easily confuse with arrogance. _He couldn’t imagine why._

It wasn’t a secret that he has always been a good dancer. It was part of the social graces that had proven very useful to him on various occasions over the years. He was well versed in the conventional ballroom dances like waltz and slowfox, and his skills in the others were tolerable at worst and definitely could be seen.  
Did he like it though? Dancing? Like most things in his life, he neither liked it nor disliked it. Like with most things in his life, he had no relationship with dancing. In those instances where there was something to be gained by it, like at political ballroom events where it would appear beneficial to beguile some high ranking foreign officials – or their wives – he enjoyed it well enough. But it was nothing more than a mean to an end at best - it was serviceable.

Five past eight, _five minutes past (!)_ the scheduled start of the lesson, the two teachers finally entered the classroom as did the woman he had danced with the last time, clearly in a hurry as her flushed cheeks and somewhat dishevelled hair would testify. _A cyclist,_ Mycroft noticed the reflecting stripes on her large pannier that she threw next to her as she sat down and took off her boots.

The warm-up started, following very much the same procedure as last time – some basic tango walk, then to Mycroft’s exhaustion a portion of yoga-elements and finally a preparation for today’s new steps – the calesitas. This was mostly challenging for the followers, whereas the leaders were just supposed to turn around backwards on the spot. They would practice the calesitas with the inner foot and a boleo at the end, then the calesitas with the outer foot.

He was distracted a little. His visit at Sherlock’s wasn’t the only source of discomfort on this evening. Sir Edwin had informed him earlier that day that there was no news on Randall King. And on that front no news as a rule translated to bad news.  
King had been the last missing member of the Sherrinford crew. Following Eurus’ containment after the misfortunate events at Sherrinford and at the Musgrave manor over a year ago, Mycroft and the small circle that was acquainted with the situation of that particular “institution” had spared no effort to minimize the fallout: That meant to find and to contain everyone involved, every guard, every medical officer, every nurse – everyone under even the smallest suspicion of having been “enslaved” by the Holmes sister. They managed to track down everyone else rather quickly, everyone but one – Randall King. They had been following leads around the entire continent, so far without success. Mycroft was growing weary of the situation, as it was hindering him to put an end to the whole _episode_ for good.

Finally, the warm-up was over and Mycroft let his eyes swipe across the room in order to find a partner. There seemed to be only two women who were not attending the class with a partner. One was the music teacher he had danced with the last time – Louise was her name if remembered correctly – he heard someone call her by it last week, and the other one was a new face – a slim, very tall woman about his age, clearly a professional of some sorts, Mycroft guessed most probably a lawyer. But as he was something of a creature of habit and pursuing as little change as possible, he moved with swift steps towards the first. However, he wasn’t the only one. To his annoyance, a dark-haired tall man wearing a jeans-shirt tucked into his jeans crossed his path and was already stretching out an arm towards Louise.  
Mycroft sighed inwardly and was about to turn away, when the tall woman came rushing towards them, tapped the other man on his shoulder and said with a bright smile: “Olaf! Why don’t we give it a try?” And she was already grabbing his left hand and pulling him away from Louise. Mycroft observed the short exchange between the three with some fascination. No one said another word, but their faces spoke volumes. Clearly, Louise was grateful, and… relieved, he noticed somewhat puzzled. The tall lawyer seemed amused and just a tad… daring, perhaps, whereas Olaf looked simply… worried. No, not just worried, _terrified._  
Mycroft merely raised his brows briefly, then turned to Louise saying: “Shall we then?”

So they danced. Mycroft was bored rather quickly, even though – or perhaps exactly because – his counterpart was a decent dancer herself. Not perfect, but she seemed to be able to follow his lead without hesitation – a fact that he would actually compliment himself for rather than her. So out of boredom he decided to resume his mental exercise from last week trying to work out more and more facts with less and less clues about her. Given the state of the callus on the side of her left index finger he deduced that she spent a fair amount of time practising her instrument every day. Was she a member of an orchestra? Mycroft wondered. He tried to recall the faces of all the female flutists he could remember seeing over the years. He was a frequent concertgoer, at least he used to be. Like dancing it was useful on occasions to be seen at the start of the season here or spend the interval at a ballet talking to the Russian ambassador there. But he would be lying if he said it was all just business. He had always had a faible for classical music (something that his parents kept misconceiving and assuming he was hence the right person to accompany them to a musical). But his interest has somewhat abated in the past few months. He had other things on his mind. Also, the thought of being seen in public or talking to all the important people during the interval no longer seemed to hold the same appeal as it used to… before Eurus. 

Anyway, back to deductions: London was home to over fifty orchestras. That was including the big and renowned ones, just as some smaller ensembles that specialized in certain era or in a specific instrumentation. He was certain that she didn’t play in any of the large orchestras like London Symphony or any of the Philharmonics, he would remember as his facial memory was infallible. So it was more likely that she was part something smaller. There weren’t that many groups that would have use for a flute though. Mostly they were groups for chamber music. Playing flute in a smaller ensemble either meant it was something rather obscure or – more likely – she played in a group dedicated to historical performance practice. That again would mean she probably played some period instrument, as a flutist possibly a _traverso_ , which then led him to the conclusion that she was most likely a member of some small _baroque_ ensemble. _But, who knows._ He was a lot more careful when it came to relying on his deductions these days. After all, they were the reason he ended up in this dance class.

Yet, if her occupation was strictly practical, why was she always covered in chalk? He asked himself. She had to be teaching on some level, at least so on Fridays, as the state of her skirt would testify…  
“I’m Louise, by the way,” her voice brought him momentarily back to the tango class.  
He only looked her in the eyes long enough to reply curtly, “I know,” before returning his focus to the small birthmark on her left collarbone where his look had been fixed for the past half an hour.

He suddenly sensed a minor reluctance in her step. She dropped her elbow a little and the forward ocho he was leading her to do turned into a confused sidestep. He frowned. Right up till then they were dancing rather flawlessly, so the hesitation made him look up at her again. He saw her raised brows and her dark eyes looking at him… _expectantly?_

“Ah,” he understood – and sighed quietly before saying in a hardly audible, somewhat petulant voice, “Mycroft.” Then he added his trademark short painful grin that he assumed was a fair enough impression of a polite smile. 

From then on the rest of the class flew by, uneventful. They trained the new figure of calesitas in all possible variations – well, his only job as the leader was merely to slip his right arm across her back in order to get a stable grip of her waist and hold tight to it while slowly turning her around while she could do all those small adorning figures there really was no particular use for.  
But, he survived this class too, it was over sooner than he thought, and with a quick bow and a relieved sigh he hurried to change his shoes, collect his things, and then hopefully, Anthea and the car would already be waiting for him outside so that he could just hop in and leave this nightmare behind him for another week.

Louise:

“Oh, crap!” Louise cursed as she looked at her watch. It was again way past seven on a Friday evening. She had been deepened in a discussion with her student, the author of the paper on Ganymed that had kept her late last week as well. She had found his approach so innovative that she had decided to encourage him in submitting it for publication in one of the small academic journals. They met tonight in her office in order to discuss the details and perhaps to polish a thing or two in his writing to make it as appealing as possible to the peer reviewers. 

And now she was running late. Again. She hurriedly apologized to her student, packed her pannier and rushed out of the old college building that held her office towards her old bicycle. The roads were emptier, the traffic lights more gracious to her than last Friday, and so she arrived almost on time. Well, at least she wasn‘t later than Isabella and Paolo. 

She was happy to see Friederike, who winked at her as she was chatting with the elderly Italian couple. She was much less happy to see Olaf, who was already practicing some steps in front of the mirror and gave her a magnanimous smile when he saw her that made her innards curl. 

And then she spotted the tall newcomer from last week. Seeing him again she had rather mixed feelings about. He had danced really well, and what she liked even more – he made her dance really well, too. But there was something about him that was… irritating, disturbing even. Plus she had a strong feeling that he didn’t really care for being in this dance class. Which made her wonder why then did he come again.  
She was still staring at him when Fred came to her and nodded with her head towards him, asking, “Who that?”  
Louise quickly looked away from him, feeling a little caught. “A new one,” she replied turning to Fred.  
“Was he here last week?”  
Louise nodded and gave her a meaningful look.  
“That good?” Fred grinned.

The warm-up began and Louise found a spot in the room that was furthest away from Olaf.  
When Isabella and Paolo introduced the new element of today – the calesitas, she got really excited as she had wanted to this for a while. She loved the way it looked and all the possibilities for adornments that the calesitas were offering for the follower. _She was going to enjoy this so much…_ The warm-up ended and to her horror there Olaf was rushing towards her, already stretching out his large ogre-like grabby hands after her. _No, no, no, no, no_ …  
But then, just as unexpectedly, Fred came to her rescue and pulled Olaf away. Louise couldn’t help but feel a little gleeful. He had it coming. She knew he didn’t like Fred because she wouldn’t put up with his corrections, her tall stature alone somehow had the effect on Olaf that he wouldn’t dare to patronize her in the same way as he so easily did with Louise.

As Olaf was being dragged away, the tall newcomer offered her his hand with the same words he did last week. She smiled and nodded, throwing a grateful glance at Fred for offering her the lucky escape. 

She was right. She really loved these new steps. And she was now even more grateful for dancing with this stranger rather than with Olaf, for the calesitas turned to be in a way more intimate than any other steps she had learned so far, and required a higher amount of trust between the two dancing partners: the ability of the leader to support the follower in a new way and the complete faith and reliance the follower would place into the leader’s tighter embrace. Yet the way this man so matter-of-factly slipped his arm across her back to support her during each and every one of these calesitas and released her after such made her feel very comfortable. It was intimate in a way, and yet it wasn’t at the same time, it was hard to describe. It simply felt natural.

She saw Olaf struggling with Fred, he had a hard time supporting her as she was taller than him and wearing high heeled tango shoes. Louise thought she would have to buy her dinner for this.

She would keep her eyes fixed on his tie, a mustard coloured one with a small black flower print. When she dared to look stealthily into his eyes, he seemed highly focused on the dancing. There was a frown on his face just like the week before. Again it made her question why he attended the class at all.  
“I’m Louise,” she suddenly blurted out, much to her own surprise. As if something in her wanted to make a connection, to make it more agreeable for him, if there was a way.  
If her own blurt came as a surprise, it was nothing compared to his reply: “I know.” She was so baffled by these two words that she momentarily fell out of her step. Now he looked up, a bit irritated she could tell, and after a second said, “Mycroft.”

 _Well, if there was a way, this clearly wasn’t it,_ she thought. _Wait, what’s_ Mycroft? 

She decided against any more talking and was actually glad when Isabella came over to them to show her some of the embellishments for the follower’s free foot, like tracing a circle on the floor or drawing small circles in the air just inches above the ground. She loved and tried them all, but she could tell he didn’t really care for any of it.  
The class ended and just like last week Louise saw he couldn’t get out of there fast enough. She merely shrugged, feeling a little itch of longing for a good partner to take with to the Tango Garden afterwards, but… so be it. She turned around and saw Fred tapping on Olaf’s elbow with a strict glance, while the poor man was clearly trying to escape. 

When she finally left the dancing school as the last person, everyone else was already gone and headed towards the Green Lion where they used to dine every Friday in order to strengthen themselves for the milonga at Tango Garden. She saw Fred and Rebecca talking at the next corner, possibly waiting for her. It was dark and as she was buttoning up her coat she almost walked into the figure standing on the pavement, with a closed umbrella in one hand. She came to an abrupt halt and realized it was her new partner. She slowed down, he didn’t seem to have noticed her. He appeared to be waiting for something and kept looking down the street, slowly changing the weight between his feet. She wondered when she saw his look stop for a moment at Fred and Rebecca in the distance – could it be he changed his mind and was perhaps just hesitating whether to come along with them tonight?  
She thought for a second, then walked the last step up to him, feeling determined ( _and just a little scared_ ). She just opened her mouth to ask him, when a slick, black Jaguar, coming seemingly out of nowhere, came to a halt right in front of him, and she heard him say in a low, gloomy voice, clearly supressing anger, “finally,” before a driver got out and held a back door open for him.

Her eyes widened as she closed her mouth, then shrugged and turned left, feeling resigned. Oh well…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Please review, comment, critique. Can you picture Mycroft in this mess? :)


	4. Milonga Sentimental

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next bit - dance lesson number 3 and 4 :)

Chapter 4

Milonga sentimental

Mycroft

Another week has passed and Mycroft entered the tango classroom with a single thought on his mind: only ten more times left, then this madness is over. He could get through this. Ten times equalled… twelve and a half hour… 750 minutes, ten more weeks… _no, that didn’t help._  
At least the class started, unlike on the previous two evenings, on time. Yet despite that he found himself annoyed. His last tango partner hasn’t arrived yet. She had been late before, but when the warm-up was over and it was time for the attendees to pick their partners, it became clear he would be forced to make do with someone else. This was all very inconvenient. After all, what important errand could a gold-fish like an ordinary college music teacher be running on a Friday night that would prevent her from attending the dance class, he smirked thinking.

“Is Loo coming tonight, do you know?” He heard someone ask. It was a small elderly woman, with a heavy Italian accent. He remembered her from the two previous evenings when she danced with an elderly small man, clearly her husband, who wasn’t here tonight. It took him two seconds and a look at the old lady’s dress and hair to determine that her husband had a minor surgery this week, probably something with a knee and had to sit this – and very likely the next two nights out, but managed to convince his wife to go without him.

“I think she said they had a rehearsal tonight, a big one,” the tall lawyer who had tortured Olaf last week replied, “they’re playing at the Purcell Room next Thursday.”  
Mycroft moved the right corner of his mouth in a short smirk of satisfaction. _Baroque ensemble it is, then. He still got it._

That was a small comfort, however, given that he now found himself standing between the two strange women – the lawyer and the old Italian – a retired tailor with a heart condition and an entirely out-of-hand Fisherman’s Friend addiction.  
“Weeell, looks like we’ll be sharing you,” the latter said with a wide smile and looked over at the lawyer. “What do you say, Fred?”  
Friederike didn’t seem to be quite as overly enthused or at least she didn’t show it. She merely smiled at him and raised her brows, indicating both that she felt sorry for him but that also he had no choice. The old woman was already grabbing his right arm and placing it on her massive hip…

A week later at Sherlock’s flat:

“I’m begging you, Sherlock, please, I’ll do anything, just please, please, release me out of that wager, please, I’ll even take mother and father to see _Cats_ next time they’re in town…”  
This was what it has come to. He had lost all his pride, abandoned all his resolutions to carry on with dignity and endure his ordeal. There simply were limits… and his had been crossed the second the old woman – on purpose as he was certain – confused a _pasada_ with a _caricias_ and lifted her leg and instead of just stepping over his foot barely touching it she slowly slid her lower leg alongside his, rubbing it way too long upon his. And though he was usually unimpressed by such assaults on his person – the woman was clearly trying to seduce him –, this physicality was going way too far, even for a tango lesson. At least his previous partner had been able to follow the instructions for the current lessons properly.  
“I’m sorry, Mycroft, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do,” Sherlock said without raising an eye from the newspaper he had been reading. “You had agreed to the terms and conditions before the bet.”  
“I only ever agree because I never lose,” Mycroft said impatiently.  
Sherlock raised his eyes from the newspaper and glared at him. “Well, there’s a first time for everything, _brother dear_ ,” he said mockingly and suddenly jumped to his feet energetically. “See it as an opportunity!” he added on his way to the kitchen.  
“But you don’t understand,” Mycroft protested in frustration, “you cannot imagine the horrors I had to endure… the noise…. the people”, he said with an outrage in his voice.  
John who had been feeding Rosie in a chair raised his eyes with amusement.  
“The noise?” He asked. “You mean – the dance music?”  
Mycroft merely looked at him gloomily, “I mean all that… that little chitter-chatter of those people about… stuff,” he pronounced the last word with an utter disgust. And he had been completely nauseated: all those little people laughing and talking about their little excitement about the everyday, mundane things, like what the best tango shoes were or their favourite tango song… or their plans for the weekend – whether to go shopping or take a trip to the country. All their merriment and all the little emotions and their jabbering about the trivia were giving him a headache.  
“And the touching,” he still shrugged when the old woman came into his mind and how she painfully squeezed his shoulder at every _ocho_. Even after a week his arm still felt sore.  
Yet Sherlock, always the compassion personified, was already dragging him towards the door where he gave him one last pat on his back, saying, “well, maybe try to enjoy it this time. Bye-bye.”

And so, he left his brother’s flat at half past eight, very much dreading the coming two hours.  
Yet when five minutes after the class started the music teacher entered the classroom with her red cheeks and somewhat messy hair, Mycroft could sense the tension in his body releasing a little. He wouldn’t go as far as to say that he was relieved, but at least he knew he would get through the evening with a little less pain than last time.

Today’s lesson was a bit different and brought a little more distraction for him as Paolo and Isabella decided to teach them a milonga, the faster-paced predecessor of the Tango Argentino that was still being danced at most milongas all over the world. It was in many ways easier than tango. It may have lacked the serious elegance and the grandeur of tango alone due to its speedier steps, but it was more entertaining in a way. 

Mycroft didn’t like this spontaneous change of genre. He wasn’t quite as familiar with milonga as it wasn’t a dance that was being danced at any high society ballroom events he would go to. He always rather associated it with the lower classes, something the “common” people would dance in their tango lofts and their Tango Gardens. The mere idea of that made his nose turn up.

Still, at least that woman was back, a small comfort in all this… unpleasantness. The six basic milonga steps were rather straight-forward. Even with all the possible variations. No, the challenge on this one really was the higher speed as Mycroft had to admit. It painfully brought to light just how bad a shape he was in, when after the second milonga he was already gasping for air. He just hoped his counterpart didn’t notice. _An extra session on the treadmill clearly was long overdue._

He would not admit it out loud, but there was something about this dance now that was appealing to him. Maybe it was precisely that speed, because it made him – just a little – lose his stern focus and turn off the analytic part of his mind. There was little time for observations or deductions other than where the next move should lead or how to direct their steps so they wouldn’t collide with another couple in the room. It was exhausting, yet not in a bad way, he thought at the end of the class as he threw himself on the wooden bench. Sweat running down his forehead, and still breathing heavily he began to take off his shoes.  
Next to him the tall lawyer named Friederike was talking to Louise who just approached the bench and seemed to be looking for her things. Only now Mycroft noticed the colour in her cheeks and a few wet strings of hair, sweaty and darker than the rest of it they were framing her face and somehow accentuating her dark eyes.  
“So, how was the concert last night?” Fred asked.  
Louise, who was just slightly out of breath too, replied: “Good, good. It was a nice turn-up, it got almost sold out from what I saw.”  
“That’s nice. I’m still mad that I couldn’t make it,” Fred said apologetically. “If it wasn’t for the case…”  
Louise waved her hand to dismiss any guilty conscience. “Don’t worry about it. I know baroque isn’t exactly your thing… But we’re playing in Manchester in six weeks, so, you know – if you feel like making the trip…” she added jokingly.  
Mycroft collected his things and, unlike on the previous nights he didn’t leave with his gloomy frown on his face, but bowed slightly towards the two women before saying “Good night” and turning on his spot.  
He was less amused to find that Anthea and his car were again late. He was just about to call and scold her when the Jaguar arrived in front of the dancing school and he got in. He gave Anthea a strict glare, but she was typing something on her phone and barely acknowledged him. On every other night he would not let it pass, but he felt too tired right now. Not just tired… he felt… _relaxed_ … which was a new sensation for him. Whether he realized it or not, the milonga seemed to have unclenched him a little, it allowed his brain a rare break and he almost fell asleep on the ride home.

Louise

 _Well, it’s becoming rather a tradition, so why change now_ , Louise thought after she had looked at her watch on the Friday night and realized with horror that she would again be late for the tango class. She didn’t even have a good excuse this time. She was shopping at the _Woodwinds_ , it was the end of the month, that meant money, and money meant she could treat herself to new stuff, even it was just new powder paper for her flute, a silver cleaning cloth or a silly new sticker for her flute case. The store was closing at 7:30 and she was the last customer. She payed quickly, then hopped on her bike and pedalled fast. At least the ride activated some of her energy reserves: she was still very tired as she hadn’t got much sleep after the concert they had given last night at the Purcell Room. But it was worth it. They had played two concertos by Telemann, one for a Traverso and Recorder that they performed on historical instruments, and the other for flute and basso continuo that they had decided to play on modern ones. They had been some apprehensions as to how the audience would react to this mixture. Reviews, of course, weren’t out just yet, but from the immediate whispers after the concert they gathered that they played and were received very well and thanks to some mingling and buttering up the right people at the cocktails afterwards she and her co-players even foresaw a new recording contract in the near future.

When she finally arrived at the dance class, Paolo merely shook his head in resignation at her repeated late arrival while she gave him an innocent smile and hurried to change into her dancing shoes.  
Isabella was demonstrating the milonga steps for the followers with some possible variations like the rebounds and the slow-slow-quick-quick cycle. Louise nodded rather to herself in appreciation. She hadn’t learned the milonga steps properly until now, though she had tried dancing some at Tango Garden, which mostly ended up with the leader sweeping her across the dance floor like a broomstick. So tonight’s lesson looked very promising and useful.  
Fred had told her about last week, and she couldn’t help but grin when she threw a stolen look at the tall newcomer, trying to picture Maria, the elderly, but very sensual Italian woman, holding tight onto him while practicing the pasadas.  
The demonstration ended and she looked around for a partner. She noticed Olaf wasn’t there tonight. _That’s a relief_. Also, Maria was on her own – Louise remembered something about Salvatore having a surgery, and there was Fred. She was looking at Fred with a question in her eyes, but the tall woman merely shook her head and gave a meaningful nod pointing at someone behind Louise, then turned around and walked towards Maria.  
Louise frowned, somewhat confused, when a voice behind her said, for the third time: “Shall we then?”  
She turned around to face a navy blue tie with grey polka dots, before raising her eyes to his.  
“Gladly,” she said and took his left hand. His face was slightly different than before. She was rather puzzled by it and would throw stolen glances at him to check if she was really seeing it quite right. It would be too much to say that he looked… content, it wasn’t even a smile, but the corners of his mouth were no longer facing downwards, and the strict frown on his forehead was missing as was the scowl from his clear blue eyes. She thought he looked… relieved, perhaps. And she wondered what had brought on this unexpected change of heart.  
The fast-paced milonga even added some colour to his otherwise pale cheeks. It suited him well, she thought as they were practising the _traspiés_. It was then, when a sudden heat wave overcame her that, however, had nothing to do with the speed of their dancing. She recognized it, she had felt it before, months ago while dancing with Steve, a very brief moment, a mere split of a second of a very intense attraction towards her partner that came like a flush of heat and would go just as suddenly: after a few racing heartbeats and a short jolt of her stomach it was gone again. She didn’t think much of it afterwards. Tango was like that sometimes. You came very close to another person, a stranger, and after a few dances it may have felt like you actually knew them, even though you really didn’t. So it really meant nothing, she assured herself, just another moment of delusive fancy.

The last milonga was over and they both were pretty much out of breath. His right arm let go of her waist to loosen up the immaculate know on his tie a little ( _seriously, what was happening?!_ ), while the other hand held her just a little longer after the music was over. Whether he had just forgotten himself for a moment or whether he was making sure that after the sudden stop she was steady on her own feet without his lead before letting her go entirely, it was hard to tell. And there came another fluster of heat over her. She shrugged subconsciously to shake off the idea of getting attracted to him in any way. As if he had sensed that he let go of her, bowed his usual courteous bow and walked off towards the bench.  
Louise took a deep breath and slowly followed him. _It’s nothing_ , she told herself while her eyes were sliding over his slender back silhouette.  
“How was the concert, Loo?” Fred asked her and offered a welcomed distraction from her thoughts.  
For a second she had to think. The concert from the previous night had already felt like ages ago.  
“Good, good. Nice turn-up, too,” she replied.  
“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it,” Fred said.  
“That’s alright, I know baroque isn’t exactly your thing… But we’re playing in Manchester in six weeks, so, you know – if you feel like making the trip…” She grinned at her friend.  
“Maybe,” Fred laughed, “any chance you guys are going to play some rock up there?”  
In that moment dancing partner who had been sitting next to Fred and lacing up his fancy Oxford shoes got up to his feet and bid them good night. Not with his usual frown as he did on the previous nights, but actually with something remotely resembling… a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, comment, review, critique :D
> 
> Also: a question for you readers: I wonder if anyone has spent any time on thinking what kind of music someone like Mycroft would listen to? If classical - what period do you think would be his favourite, would he have a favourite composer/piece? Let me know, if you have any ideas :D


	5. Bahia Blanca

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Introducing a very slow start of the pandemic, I didn't give it a name, obviously it's inspired by the Corona-pandemic, but please, best imagine everything related to it as an AU-pandemic, and don't expect me to follow the exact timeline or policies during this real pandemic, as I'm trying to keep real-life politics out of this.
> 
> There will be a lockdown at some point, but merely as a background for the story in order to explore what a person like Mycroft - who is used to being alone - would behave like, how or if at all it would affect him and such

**Chapter 5**

_Bahia Blanca_

**Mycroft**

The fifth week of his punishment had flown by really fast, Mycroft thought as he was sitting in the back of his car, staring thoughtfully out of the window, with Anthea next to him, yet again typing wildly some mysterious notes or messages into her phone. He made a mental note to speak to her about it, or rather – to make his own deductions first and then to take action if necessary (which was always preferable to an awkward conversation with a staff – that would only be his last resort). Yet not tonight, he wasn't going to let this taint his evening even more, as he had the distinct feeling he wasn't going to like it.

It has been a peculiar and busy week, workwise at least, like it hasn't been in a while for him.

Things had been different after Eurus. He was, of course, still working on a full salary and had kept his – as he used to put it - _minor position_ in the government. But when pre-Eurus he would have been _begged_ on a daily basis to take care of a minor domestic issue here or solve an international crisis there, post-Eurus he has been under the impression that they were now rather paying him to stay away, that it was now more of a pension of sorts.

And he stopped counting the times when he would now hear the phrase that he deserved to be appreciated because it was always followed by the suggestion that he now enjoy a well-earned leave. Also, he had been getting prizes, accolades while attending benefits, yet he was certain it wasn't because of his achievements, no. He felt that they were rather send-offs to an early retirement, almost like an encouragement for him to leave the stage. Has he become unreliable? Did they no longer trust his judgment?

There were many signs that they didn't.

Sure, there still were instances where he would be consulted and asked for assistance, but to be honest, _assistance_ and _consulting_ weren't really his M.O., he found those terms rather insulting. It made him feel so… optional. He wasn't a consultant, not really. And though he never was one seeking public acknowledgment or praise, he still rather saw himself as a solver, the one _pulling_ the strings, not _one_ of the strings.

There was talk about a new virus spreading from Asia, it was too early yet to tell where it was headed and how much it was going to affect Europe and Britain in particular. Still, in the earlier days he would have been involved, even if only _consulted_ , even if epidemic and healthcare issues weren't necessarily his area of expertise. This was different though as it also touched on international relations, specifically with a major foreign player being the assumed source of the epidemic, with whom Britain already had a strained and delicate relationship. But he had been mostly kept at bay. However, that didn't deter him from doing his own research and trying to gather as much intelligence as he could and prepare for the eventuality when they would (and they eventually would, of that he was certain) decide to include him.

The car stopping in front of the dancing school and his chauffeur opening the door for him brought him out of his thoughts. He got out of the car, but before closing the door he leant inside and said to his assistant: "This time, don't be late."

 _My, my, the world IS all upside down tonight_ , he thought when he spotted his dancing partner Louise, who contrary to all her previous late appearances was now clad in her dancing shoes already and talking to one of the other attendees despite the fact that the class wouldn't start for another five minutes.

Without realizing it slightly improved his mood. He gave a short nod and one of his signature forceful smiles when she noticed him enter the class.

The class was emptier than usual, Mycroft wondered if this was already due to the slowly spreading news about the new virus. Possibly, on the other hand, there had only been few cases in Britain so far, no. It was much more likely that it had to do with the bank holiday on Monday following the weekend, so that a lot of people who had family or friends scattered across the island would have already left London either for the country or even – depending on their finances and their environmental attitude – taken a flight abroad to spend the prolonged weekend somewhere far away from the cold, rainy and inhospitable sky of late winter Britain. Why Louise, a music teacher on a pitiful college salary couldn't undertake the latter was obvious. That she didn't leave even for the countryside (as Mycroft referred to the rest of the country outside London) strongly suggested that she had no relations she could visit, or at least none that she would care for. The lawyer, Friederike, however, wasn't so simple. Yet, Mycroft spent three seconds sizing up her attire and her leather briefcase along with a small trolley in which he assumed she was carrying all her case files. Attached to it was a black garment bag which no doubt carried her barrister gown. So her staying in London was owing to a case and not necessarily to a lack of means or want.

The elderly Italian couple was missing, probably visiting their grandchildren. Olaf hasn't come either, and neither has Paolo. The teaching was up to the female instructor tonight.

It was hard to determine the exact reason, but Mycroft felt slightly more relaxed tonight. Or rather – less morose than usually. It was out of the question that his resentment could have turned into anticipation. But at least, he was at peace with this current fate, he has come to terms with it and has somewhat reconciled with the idea that this was where he would be spending his coming Friday nights, for a few more weeks that is. And he smiled to himself noticing Louise yet again confusing left and right as Isabella began the first warm-up exercise.

The element to learn today was the barida. Mycroft found himself mildly disappointed that they wouldn't continue with the milonga from last week, but rather returned back to dancing the more graceful, yet stiff tango. On the other hand, baridas at least – unlike the last figure they had been training – were an element for the leader to perform. It wasn't difficult, it basically meant that he would sweep the follower's foot by briefly dragging it along the floor. It had something rather cheeky to it when he thought about it. Far from being able to admit to it – he was actually enjoying himself. Quite unlike his counterpart, he noticed with some astonishment and irritation.

He observed her for a few seconds. Her eyes were as usually fixed on his tie, but the look in them, on any other night so utterly focused and clear, was now blank and dazed. For some strange reason it was aggravating him more than it should. Her dancing too was not up to its usual high standard. She missed several clues on his part and her steps, usually so graceful and elegant, were now reluctant and almost erratic at times. But since he wasn't his brother, he would not consider dispraising her for it out loud. What would annoy him even more though was her constant apologizing. After _every single_ misstep she would frantically shake her head and mutter "sorry". It was as if she had forgotten she had said it just seconds away, it felt like a recurring nightmare or Groundhog Day.

The whole thing was irksome for two reasons: First was the absence of the usual flow in their dancing, something he had always despised. At a ballroom dance he would often find himself dancing with politicians or their wives whose dancing skills were lacking, to say the least. It had always cost him greatest forbearance not to turn them down but instead to stoop down to their level and to adapt his dancing accordingly, because the stakes on such events were usually very high. Here on the other hand there was nothing to be gained and he had managed to suffer in silence throughout the course of this class only because his partner was tolerable enough a dancer.

And second, he was irritated that he couldn't determine the reason for her appalling moves tonight. He could collect all sorts of clues that something _was_ wrong, but couldn't draw any conclusion as to the cause.

And, there was a third: it irritated him that it _irritated_ him. Because it shouldn't. He didn't as a rule care about other people and their little insecurities. The profanity of their problems he always found nauseating. And yet now he really would have wanted to know.

 _Why? Why did it matter?_ But he didn't dwell on it any further. After a second he dismissed any idea other than that his concern was purely self-serving – he really only loathed _how_ it was hindering their performance.

He briefly considered changing partners – the tall lawyer was without a counterpart and currently either dancing with the female teacher or practicing some steps on her own on the barre in front of the mirror.

But, in the end he decided to construe his onerous situation as something of a challenge, and so embarked on a little experiment in order to bring the music teacher up to speed and focus so he could finally get back to dancing the baridas. For the time being he abandoned the new element entirely and with the next tango song he began to lead simple steps forward and backward, then added sidestep, and a rebound here and an ocho there, but nothing more fancy for now. When in the next tango he noticed her steps becoming more firm, he would after an ocho slip his right arm further across her back and lead her to do a calesita. He did not care much for that particular figure, but he remembered well that she had very much enjoyed them three weeks ago, so he was confident that they would help install her back into a dancing level he wanted her at.

And he was right. _He was really good_. He mentally congratulated himself when during the fourth tango they managed to dance without a single disruption. He observed the look in her eyes getting softer and more relaxed while at the same time her grip in his left hand and her elbow finally achieved the level of tension so crucial for a stable frame. Also, he noted that the frown on her forehead had disappeared. During the fifth one he carefully again introduced her to the baridas they were supposed to practice: as if someone had turned on another switch on her – she was finally working the way he had expected her to. Towards the end of the class, he rightfully felt very smug for having _repaired_ her and being able to enjoy a few more dances on top of it.

As far as his imposed tango evenings went, this was a good one, he thought when he walked out of the dancing school with an unusual bounce to his step.

His good spirits, however, weren't meant to last.

Once again – _was it the third or the fourth time by now?_ _It certainly was the second time this week_ – Anthea and his car were nowhere to be seen. He gave the pavement an angry tap with the point of his umbrella before pulling his mobile out of the inside pocket of his coat.

"Where. Is. The. Car?" He spoke into his phone, not loud, not in a whisper, but in a voice he knew would make his assistant worry. Or at least it used to. Now he wasn't so sure.

He heard her murmur some short apologies, but wouldn't let her finish and said: "Well, it better be _here. Now_."

* * *

**Louise**

Louise was riding through the streets of Bloomsbury on her old bicycle. It was winter, so it got dark very early, but she had always enjoyed riding in the dark. It made her more aware of her other senses. At this time of day the streets were getting quieter, so one could catch the sound of birds in the Malet Street Gardens or perceive the sweet smell of hollies when passing by Russell Square.

But tonight none of this had an effect on her. She was desperately lost in thoughts, or rather – despair. It was silly, really. She knew it was just stupid lack of self-esteem…

Half an hour ago, her and two of her co-players from their ensemble had left the meeting at the recording studio where they had discussed the contract and the conditions of their new, their first recording. It was something they had all been waiting for for a really long time. It had promised to be a huge career jump for a lot of them, a chance to get noticed by a far wider audience than they could ever expect by giving small chamber performances here and there.

After their concert at the Purcell Room few weeks ago they were all very hopeful, and it was understood that for the recording they would do those same pieces they had performed in that said concert, and yes, maybe add one small thing to spice it up a bit. Yet clearly the recording studio had a slightly different idea in mind.

They were asked to perform and record a newly discovered or – to be exact – a very recently reconstructed draft of a concerto for flute and basso continuo by Telemann. The score had been discovered only few weeks ago during the liquidation of an old house in the German town of Leipzig and quickly – and quite correctly as it seemed – attributed to the baroque composer. Several groups of academics and musicians had since taken it upon themselves to try and reconstruct and also adapt the score for an ensemble that would seem contemporary. And now the race began as to who would dare a first attempt to record it and/or perform it on a stage.

Louise and her colleagues were conflicted. They were aware of the vast opportunity they had been presented with. Their ensemble _Favete linguis_ (it still made her feel a bit dorky when she saw the name on a poster) was still a neophyte on the scene of baroque ensembles. The fact that the studio had picked them for this challenge was a huge compliment. Still, she felt that _challenge_ was the operational word here rather than anything else. And maybe responsibility. And maybe hubris. And definitely impossibleness – if that were a word. And horror. And panic _…. Deep breaths! Listen to the birds, smell the hollies!_

In this mental state she reached the dancing school, amazingly - on time. Absently she locked up her bicycle and walked up the few steps towards the swinging door, her mind kept returning to the recording contract.

They did not have time to discuss it among themselves afterwards, as both her co-players Emily and Lars were in a hurry to catch a train – it was a holiday weekend after all. Apparently she was the only one with no plans, she sighed with just a hint of bitterness. Yet, when she entered the classroom to her joy she found Fred sitting on the bench, slightly bent over and putting on her dancing shoes. That improved her mood a little. Fred managed to distract her, if only for a moment, by talking about her current case until Isabella arrived and the warm-up began.

She had troubles concentrating on any exercise. She tried to keep up and focus on Isabella's instructions, but she would only manage it for a minute when the thing at the back of her mind caught up with her.

"Shall we?" She heard the familiar question spoken in front of her and where she had been staring on the floor suddenly appeared a pair of black and white perfectly polished gentleman's dancing shoes. She raised her head, gave him a weak smile and hesitantly took his hand.

She hated this state of mind – an unresolved issue that, however, she could do nothing about for the time being, except worrying and panicking and painting up scenarios where they would practice and record and epically fail and it would all be because of her and everyone would discover after all that she was a flute-fraud and only managed to pretend she could play and deceive everyone for so long… Oops…

"Sorry," she muttered as she took the wrong turn on an ocho. She took a deep breath and tried again. _What were they supposed to practice again?_

She was certain she would spoil it for everyone in the ensemble and then they would all go down, die in poverty, after having been degraded to pauper street musicians playing on the tube, or in dreary London parks, getting pooed on by pigeons, or fighting for a good spot with the raggedy grey-haired accordion player…

"Oh, sorry." She must have missed a clue, because she had no idea what he was doing, trying to gently sweep her foot with his along the floor… weird… _Oh wait, was that the thing they should learn? A barrista, or something like that?_

… and Lisa could never pay off the mortgage on her house, Lars and Emily would never get their dream-wedding, and László would surely lose his other job and would get deported back to his home country and they would all hate her and it would _all_ be her fault… _Enter full panic-mode_ …

She suddenly felt his grip on her waist firm up a little, and at the same time the long fingers of his left hand wrapped around her right more tightly. He raised their hands a little, and she knew she must have again slumped her elbow – she often did when she wasn't entirely focused.

She tried again to push the – in big parts merely imagined – crisis out of her head and to admire the delicate flower print on his blue tie instead. He was as always immaculately dressed in a grey suit, with a waistcoat, only this time he had decided to take off the jacket. She wondered briefly if this was a sign that he was feeling a little more comfortable after five weeks.

She focused on the white blossoms on his tie, trying to figure out what flower or tree they were supposed to be, but she was rubbish when it came to botany. Still, it was soothing, and so was his calm, but firm lead, she had to admit once she finally gave herself into it and managed to leave the problems of the day behind. He really was a good dancer.

Once she finally paid attention, she knew exactly what he wanted, what steps he was leading and at which point he was giving her an opportunity for an embellishment of her own. And she even enjoyed the new element, the "sweep" of her foot forced by his, there was something slightly naughty to it, and it conveyed the impression of an increased level of intimacy, not unlike the calesitas they did a few weeks ago, but with a slightly cheekier note to it. It felt like one wouldn't dare to dance it with a complete stranger, and yet – it didn't feel strange at all with him.

The last few tangos were over too soon, she thought when they walked off to the bench to collect their things.

"Are we going tonight?" Fred asked her on the way out.

"Sure, I don't see why not," Louise replied without raising her eyes from her shoes. Once again the clasps were unyielding.

"Great, meet you there? Or are you on foot? Should I wait, give you a lift?"

"You go on, I'll collect my bike and see you there. Is anyone else coming?" She wondered as the class had been rarely empty tonight, apart from Fred there had only been Rebecca with her husband Ian and the young couple whose names she didn't know as they mostly kept to themselves.

"Don't know," Fred shrugged, gave her a short wave and hurried off to her car. To find a parking spot near Tango Garden was always a challenge.

As usual, Louise was the last person to leave the classroom. She collected her things, turned off the lights and walked out. Once outside she was rummaging in her backpack for the keys to her lock, when a quiet voice caught her attention. She didn't quite hear what it said – something about a car – but she recognized it all the same, the clarity and the softness that had again, just like the first time she heard it, reminded her of the felt in a grand piano ending each clear tone on a softer note than expected.

She briefly admired his sleek, dark silhouette standing on the pavement, the tip of his long umbrella glistening, the dark overcoat with half raised collar perfectly fitting his slender body…

_Cling… clong…_

The found keys of her bike lock fell to the ground with what sounded like a bang in the death silence of the street.

He turned around, not abruptly, nor scared, with merely raised eyebrows.

"Sorry," she murmured as she knelt down to pick up the keys.

Did she imagine it or did he gave a short exasperated sigh?

"Do you want to come?" She blurted out the second she got up again. W _here did_ that _come from?_

"I'm sorry?" He looked at her with a frown.

"Ehm, the milonga, at Tango Garden? I thought perhaps you'd want to… dance… some more…" _Behold the eloquent invite..._

She wished herself far away and was certain he was going to refuse when she saw him open his mouth. Yet to her surprise and – so was her impression at least – his as well, instead of rejecting right away he threw a glance towards the far end of the street, then at the tip of his umbrella, then said with a short sigh: "Alright".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: So, I think it's obvious that Mycroft only agreed to come to annoy Anthea and let her wait, right? :D
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading so far, please, leave a review, on anything you like, or don't like, or find weird. I spent a lot of time pondering how Mycroft's work would have changed after The Final Problem, haven't quite figured it out, so I appreciate any input, thoughts, comments, ideas.


	6. Una música brutal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Hi there. This one took a bit longer, and I had a hard time writing it, as it was harder than I thought picturing Mycroft in a strange environment, so very much outside of what I think of as his natural milieu :D
> 
> The switches between Mycroft’s and Louise’s pow are more frequent in this chapter, I hope it’s not too annoying, it kinda felt like serving the purpose.

**M:**

Mycroft just hung up on Anthea, ordering her to appear, with the car, at once, when he heard a clinging noise behind him. He turned around and saw the music teacher with a half open backpack in one hand and a knitted scarf in the other. She knelt down to pick something up and murmured “sorry” for what felt like the 100th time this evening. He rolled his eyes and was about to turn his focus back towards the end of the street where he expected his car to appear any second now, for Anthea’s sake, when the woman spoke again: “Do you want to come?”

“I’m sorry?” He didn’t understand the question.

“The-the milonga, at Tango Garden? Do you want to-to… dance some more?” She stammered.

He was going to decline as politely, but as firmly and definitely as possible so as to discourage her from ever asking again, yet something made him pause. He had his mouth open, then closed it again and looked towards the end of the street one last time. In his head he then counted to three and when the black jaguar failed to appear, he made a choice. Why should he be the one waiting? No, now it was Anthea’s turn.

“Alright,” he said at last and made a step towards her.

She raised her brows in surprise, clearly not expecting that answer.

“Great,” she said nervously, then looked around her in confusion, probably trying to remember where she had locked her bicycle earlier this evening.

“Over there?” Mycroft pointed with his umbrella towards an old, dark red lady’s bicycle, tied with a metal lock to a street lamp, just few feet away.

**L:**

Louise looked in the direction he was pointing and smiled relieved. “Ah, yes, thanks,” frowning only seconds later when she realized how odd it was, him not only recognizing her bicycle, but also knowing she had one.

They walked together, she pushing her bicycle, he with his umbrella on his arm, both following the small misty clouds of their breaths in the cold air of early March.

When she had asked him to come, she didn’t realize they would actually have to walk together, alone, in silence… unless she came up with some topic for them to talk about… which, let’s be honest… was very unlikely, what with her being as shy as she was and him being… well… _him_ ….

She was still trying to think hard about what to ask or to say, when a sound came out of his coat, his phone was ringing loud in the night.

“Excuse me,” he said quietly without halting though, as he retrieved his mobile out of the depths of his expensive looking black coat.

“Yes?” He said, and Louise thought she detected something like a false sweetness in his tone when he said after a brief pause: “Good. Wait there.” He shortly turned at Louise and smiled at her, and there was something… foxy about his expression, a satisfaction and perhaps a trace of malice, of mischief, when he added: “I might be a while.”

“So-uh…,” she began after he had put away his phone, “what… is your name then?” She asked, and felt kind of stupid. She couldn’t say why but something about him made her think that a question this banal was simply not worthy of his attention, that he couldn’t be bothered by being asked such trivia.

“Mycroft, I told you so three weeks ago,” he replied with a minor rebuke in his voice.

“Oh, sorry,” she hurried to say, “I didn’t realize that was your name, or… you know… _A_ name,” she muttered, her voice getting quieter towards the end of that sentence.

“You’re welcome to take that on with my parents,” he said.

“Noted,” she replied nodding.

Silence fell again. She wondered if he found it as uncomfortable as she did. She was not a very sociable person and has always had her difficulties striking a conversation with new people. But this was the year in her life where she had made the resolution to get out of her comfort zone as often as possible and try out all those… social… activities. _So, here we go_ ….

“I hope I didn’t… cross any of your evening plans…” she said, hinting at the phone call he had just ended.

**M:**

Mycroft found that statement odd, silly even, brazen almost, to think that a suggestion of attending a plebeian dance gathering could make him alter his schedule – had he got one for tonight. He said nothing.

**L:**

“Only,” she dared to continue, although all of her inner voices were telling her to just shut up, “one seldom finds a partner who dances as fluently and flawlessly as you.” _SHUT! UP!_ … It rather sounded like she was cajoling him, which really wasn’t her intention. She really just meant what she said.

“I should think so,” he replied simply. She raised her eyebrows, marvelling at his arrogance. She wished she was half as self-assured as he was. That would really make her life a lot easier on many an occasion.

They arrived at the Green Lion, the small Japanese place where they used to go before the milongas, to have something to eat and drink and gather some strength before diving into the full dance-mode. After all, these dances often went into the morning hours. While she was locking up her bicycle, Mycroft was looking at the entrance with a frown.

**M:**

“Is this it?” He asked sceptically. _Didn’t she say Tango Garden?_ Yet all he could see was the window into what looked like a small, rather crowded Japanese restaurant.

“Oh, sorry,” she replied apologetically. “We usually eat something beforehand. There isn’t much at Tango Garden and you wouldn’t want to dance on an empty stomach.”

He raised his brows this time, already regretting that he agreed to come. But then, he was doing it to teach Anthea a lesson. With an inner sigh he followed her inside, hoping that _teaching Anthea a lesson_ wouldn’t in the end turn into an evening more unbearable for him than for his assistant, there were other ways…

The restaurant was rather loud, and very full. An arm somewhere at the back waved at them and Louise moved towards it. There at the table sat the lawyer Friederike, the other couple from their class, and four other people Mycroft hasn’t seen before.

“Hello,” Louise said with a shy smile while taking off her coat. Rebecca and Ian greeted them with a welcoming smile, while the others merely gave a short nod. He waited for her to take the seat next to Friederike, then sat down next to her at the far end of their table.

The waiter came to take their order and to Mycroft’s astonishment Louise ordered a beer and some baked potatoes while he decided to go with water and a simple salad which to him seemed to be the safest choice in a strange environment like this one.

He observed the dynamic of the group. The conversation was being dominated by the two couples that he didn’t know, particularly by the middle aged man from the one and the young woman from the other. The topic seemed to be the political situation in some third world country. It made Mycroft roll his eyes, the way these people spoke, so self-assured of their opinions and so very convincingly presenting what they thought of as facts when, _in fact_ , they couldn’t be more wrong.

He noticed the occasional side glance of the man thrown at him (he must have guessed due to Mycroft’s attire that he was of some significance), as if he was daring him to join the discussion, only to be trashed by the man right away in a condescending way, but Mycroft didn’t fall for it. He could easily humiliate him within few seconds, but he wasn’t in the mood, and he oddly found himself bored by the conversation and instead returned back to his deduction exercise. After all, he hasn’t encountered such variegated group of strangers in a long time, it provided an interesting change to his usual social circles where – let’s be honest – people he encountered there were mostly - all the same.

**L:**

Louise was thankful when her pint arrived rather fast. As usual she would need the large pint glass to have something to fumble with. She always got a little nervous during these dinners. Well, nervous perhaps wasn’t the right term, just slightly out of place. Even after months she hasn’t quite got used to being part of such a large group of people. And to be honest, it didn’t really feel like she _was_ a part of it. She only really knew Fred, and even her she didn’t know too well. She rarely participated in their heated discussions on some current political issues. Not that she didn’t care or have an opinion, she just had the feeling that it was of no interest to anyone. But she didn’t mind, she was used to being the one in the corner that only at the end of the dinner when they all got up made people remember she had been there the whole time.

Her eyes fell upon his Mycroft’s right hand that grasped his glass of water. She always had a thing for long fingers, it probably had to do with music and her fancy for musicians, but who knew… Staring at his she thought they were just perfect, graceful, not bony, just… sleek and elegant, and she felt like they were meant to touch beautiful, fine things only. Also there was a way he was touching things, even his glass or his coat when he would hang it on the stand earlier as they came in, with such care that almost seemed… premeditated, just like the sound of his voice it made her wonder how much of it was yearlong practice and cultivated and how much was just genuinely his nature.

Fred suddenly pulled her out of her thoughts: “How are things going with your recording offer?”

**M:**

None of these people were politicians, or secret service, or military or any such. Mycroft was able to determine by the look of his hands and his haircut that the man leading the discussion was of the medical profession, a surgeon in fact, while the woman was a writer working for an art magazine. Their respective partners, weirdly, were both teachers – sciences and English language and literature.

Rebecca, whom he has seen in the tango class, was a housewife, mother of three, no… _four_ children, the youngest of which, a daughter, was still living in the parental home. Ian, her husband, was a dentist. Utterly unspectacular, Mycroft thought, but to his credit, he was the one who at least tried to change the subject now and then so that everyone could participate, if only for a few minutes before the two again would usurp the discussion and attention upon themselves.

Slowly Mycroft’s eyes swept to the last of the group he hadn’t yet sized up tonight: Friederike, the lawyer.

She had struck up a conversation with Louise, clearly in an attempt to involve her as she would be the only one Louise seemed comfortable enough to talk to. Mycroft was listening involuntarily, while his eyes were fixed on Fred’s features.

**L:**

Louise was just outpouring herself and her worries onto Fred, feeling both embarrassed and relieved at the same time: embarrassed for bothering Fred with what surely must have seemed to her, a criminal lawyer whose daily work consisted of talking and defending people with _real_ problems, insignificant and stupid; yet despite that she felt relieved too, because it seemed to help her a little to get it out and put it into perspective and realizing that maybe, just maybe, _her_ problems weren’t the end of the world. Fred also had the rare quality of being able to simply listen without giving unwanted advice, which was exactly what Louise needed – to feel heard, and not counselled. It often struck her as admirable because she imagined that counselling would have been Fred’s main occupation at work, and she wondered how Fred was able to just turn it off and to merely absorb Louise’s ramblings, occasionally ask an additional question to understand some part of her story a little better, yet without immediately offering some strategic plans for her next course of action.

**M:**

Mycroft was very much puzzled. Initially, he thought that Fred had turned to talk to Louise out of pity, merely to include her into the group. But that wasn’t what happened. After all, they were talking to each other, and if anything, were now excluding everyone else, not that any of the six other people noticed, or cared.

But watching Fred’s face while Louise was outpouring what could only be described as a woolly stream of consciousness, and sputtering something about a CD recording and playing a lost concerto for the first time, he came to a very different conclusion and wondered at the same time how this bit has escaped him until now. It wasn’t pity, it wasn’t… obligation that led her to talk to Louise, no.

A captivated smile on Fred’s face… _She liked her_ … A spellbound spark in her eyes… _She was interested in her_ … Dilated pupils, a flush in her cheeks when Louise suddenly cut off her sputter and asked her a sudden question… _She was in love with her_ …

Whether she was aware of it and at peace with the fact that nothing could come of it because it wasn’t mutual, or had yet to realize her feelings, he couldn’t tell.

Having eaten their dinner, the large group of nine finally rose and made their way to the Tango Garden that was only few blocks away. With a smirk of satisfaction Mycroft read the two messages Anthea had left him as well as one voice mail, in which she humbly asked _where_ to pick him up. She didn’t dare to ask about the time, so clearly she had a guilty conscience. _Good_.

**L:**

The Tango Garden wasn’t as full on this evening as it normally was. It was apparent that some of the regulars had also left town for the prolonged weekend. Louise was glad to see that the dance floor wasn’t as packed as usually and they would have plenty of space, even for some more intricate adornos.

“I hope you’ll share,” Rebecca’s giddy voice whispered into her ear and when she turned around she saw her pointing towards Mycroft who was just giving his overcoat and his jacket to the man in the cloakroom.

Louise turned slightly pink, not exactly sure how to respond to that. He wasn’t hers to share. She brought him along in hope that for once she would get to dance throughout the whole evening, instead of just dancing a handful of tangos and milongas in between when someone took pity on her sitting in the corner and lent her their partner.

“Sure,” she said sheepishly.

She danced the first two tangos with him and then two milongas, noticing with amusement how he seemed to lighten up during the latter. He clearly slightly preferred the faster paced genre. At the end of the second milonga she noticed Rebecca and Ian approaching them with the intention of switching, so that she let go of his arm and turned to Ian. To her surprise (and admittedly, just a little twinge of pleasure) she saw him frown. It may have just been a fancy of her, but it would appear as if he disapproved of this unscheduled rearrangement. But, she didn’t want to look like she was monopolizing him, and besides, Ian was a decent leader himself. His footwork was perhaps somewhat clumsy at times, but he would make up for it with a very firm frame, so that she rarely had to _guess_ what he was up to and always knew what he was leading her to do.

**M:**

Mycroft frowned as Louise had disengaged herself from their dancing embrace and turned towards Rebecca and Ian, who had just stopped next to them, then took Ian’s hand and Rebecca already grabbed his right shoulder. It hadn’t occurred to him that they would change partners, but now that he thought of it he wondered why, as it was the way any dancing events would go.

The music changed too.

“So, tell me, Mycroft, how come we haven’t seen you at a milonga before?” Rebecca asked in a chipper voice.

He was staring at her necklace, his forehead painfully furrowed as he was concentrating on the strange music. It was remotely identifiable as tango, but had a modern, electronic note to it. _It was irritating_.

“Where have you and your moves been hiding all this time?” She spoke again.

He raised his eyes for a few seconds to look into hers before saying: “If you must know, this isn’t my natural milieu.”

Rebecca nodded amused. “Oh? And what is?”

“I’m sorry?” He was getting annoyed by the conversation. At least the music teacher had the decency to not pester him during their dancing. He pretended he didn’t understand the question, hoping that Rebecca would give up and focus on her steps instead.

“So what do you do for living?” She was relentless, though.

He sighed inwardly, then said in a slightly harsher voice than intended: “Filing.”

**L:**

About a dozen dances later, Louise was reunited with Mycroft, after he had wandered through the embrace of every other woman of their group like a trophy. They were again playing neo tango and she observed that he looked grumpier than when they were dancing milongas.

“I didn’t use to like it either,” she said and when he looked at her with a question in his eyes, she nodded towards the band playing _Época_ from Gotan Project. It had a sound very different to the classical orchestra of tango argentino like Carlos di Sarli or D’Arienzo. There was something more… sensual to it, more _back-alley-_ like. It made her want to grab his tie and loosen the knot on it…

**M:**

“And now?” Mycroft asked. She jerked her head up from his tie and looked unfocused as if he had interrupted her thoughts. “How do you like it now?”

**L:**

She opened her mouth, but didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t so much the content of that question that had rendered her speechless rather than suddenly realizing that it was the first time he asked her a question about her, or any question at all other than _shall we_ …

**M:**

He looked at her curiously, when suddenly his chest pocket began to vibrate.

“Excuse me,” his left hand let go of hers while with the other still at her lower back he gently pushed her as he navigated their way through the gaps between the other dancing couples in order to reach the edge of the dance floor safely.

“What is it?” He said into his phone, his voice just a tad combative.

“Sir, there’s been a development,” Anthea spoke on the other end. “You’re required at Vauxhall Cross.”

Mycroft didn’t speak for a brief moment. He tried to assess Anthea’s voice, wondering if this was just a ruse on her part to get him out at last so she could finally go back to her weekend or if there was a genuine crisis that required his immediate attention. He decided that the latter was the case. After all, Anthea might have been slacking in her duties lately, but she also must have sensed that she was already in enough trouble, and would not be short-sighted nor stupid enough to make it worse for herself by construing a fake crisis which she knew he would uncover rather sooner than later.

**L:**

Louise watched his face and his long fingers wrapped around his phone. Again she thought how graceful they looked, even holding so trivial an object as a mobile. They seemed to extend their grace to the things they would hold, somehow making them appear more special, more… delicate, significant. A warmth spread through her when she remembered that just a minute ago those fingers were wrapped around her waist.

“Alright, come and get me then, I’ll be out in five minutes. I’ll send you the location,” she heard him say in a low voice.

“You’re leaving,” she said, once again unexpectedly out loud instead of just to herself.

He typed something into his phone, then looked up at her: “Yes.”

There was a brief silence. Louise was under the impression that he was thinking of whether to say something more, as if he was pondering how much to elaborate or whether at all he need to excuse his departure. So she hurried to say in order to make it clear he didn’t owe her any explanations: “Thank you, for coming along.”

He smiled one his signature smiles that wouldn’t quite reach his eyes and she sensed that in his mind he was already elsewhere. The phone call must have been important. “So… have a-ah… nice weekend… see you next Friday then.”

He nodded briefly, then his phone rang again, and Louise knew it was time to let him go. She smiled one last time, waved somewhat awkwardly, watched him bow and then turn around and walk off in direction of the cloak room. With a small sigh she turned away too and her eyes swiped across the wide space around the dance floor on the lookout for a new partner. But she wasn’t sure she even felt like dancing anymore.

Then her eyes found Fred’s, fixed upon her with a puzzled look in them. _Maybe just one or two more then…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and for sticking with me, please, do comment, I'd really love to hear and read what you think.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, please, review, critique, encourage :)


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